


You're Texting Him Again, Aren't You?

by sunken_standard



Series: So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 03:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10822812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: Three months later he crawled into bed with her again.





	You're Texting Him Again, Aren't You?

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to [So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10682112), this time from Molly's POV.
> 
> Beta'd and made better (as always) by madder_badder. Not Britpicked.

*

 

"You're texting him again, aren't you?"

 

She wasn't, actually. She was texting Mary. Greg had popped 'round with a DVD of all the wedding photos they took off of the camera. He wasn't supposed to, it was evidence, but rules were for other people.

 

"And what if I am?" she asked, feeling combative in response to his tone.

 

"What if you are." The corners of his mouth turned down and he bobbed his head. "Right. Why would your fiancé take issue with you texting your boyfriend right in front of him, _again_."

 

"Don't be stupid," she said sharply. That was the fourth time he'd called Sherlock her boyfriend. Every time he did it, she wanted to punch him. He had no _clue_.

 

"Yeah, well, I'm no Sherlock Holmes, so I guess I am."

 

She ground her teeth and rolled her eyes; she was so sick of this shit. "No, you really aren't," she said before she could stop herself.

 

He looked at her, hurt and angry and resigned. "Yeah," he said, nodding quickly. "Yeah, alright."

 

He got off the sofa. "You'll see. You'll see what you really mean to him one day, after he uses you up and throws you over. And I'm not going to be around for that."

 

He swiped his keys off the table by the door and jammed his feet into his shoes without tying them. She made no move to stop him when he left.

 

They'd been arguing a lot, but it had never been like that. Short and neat, cold. Was that really just the end? She wasn't sure. And she wasn't sure how she felt about that except... relieved. She was feeling relieved.

 

 _Free_ , she thought. She looked down at her hands, watched herself work the ring off her finger.

 

She took the ring upstairs and put it in its box, then put the box in her underwear drawer. She'd give it back to him when she got the rest of his things packed, everything all at once.

 

She changed the sheets on the bed. She took a shower and brushed her teeth. She looked at herself in the mirror and she didn't smile, but she didn't look very sad, either. Her face didn't look as pinched as it had in the last month or so.

 

She opened the bedroom windows as far as they could go to let the breeze in; there was a storm coming. Soon.

 

Falling asleep was easier than it had been in weeks.

 

She woke up to noise in her hallway, going into the bathroom; she knew it was Sherlock by the way he moved. He could be quiet when he wanted to be, but it seemed like he wasn't concerned about it tonight. Sleep tried to pull her under again, but she waited to see if he was alright.

 

He seemed off, but he said he was okay, so she rolled over and went back to sleep.

 

She woke up again sometime later, probably when the storm began in earnest.

 

She wondered why he was there. There was something different, and it wasn't simply the fact that he was in bed with her in just his pants. Ever since the wedding he'd been... different. Disconnected. She'd only seen him twice and exchanged a handful of texts (all but one work-related). She didn't like the feeling she was getting from it.

 

Maybe it was the dark or the storm or her status as newly-liberated; she scooted closer and slipped an arm around him. She wanted to hold him, to hold onto him, and the urge was just too strong to deny.

 

He inhaled sharply, coming awake almost instantly; she had the feeling he was going to pull away, but then he didn't. He didn't relax into her, exactly, but some of the tension left him.

 

"Are you really okay?" she asked, knowing he would lie about it even if he wasn't.

 

Once, years ago, she thought that maybe they'd bridged a gulf between them, that he would let her in. That he would let her pull some of the loneliness out of him, like cleaning dirt and debris out of a wound. But time and distance had cut an even deeper canyon and, though they were closer in some respects, it still felt like he was never farther away, further out of reach.

 

She wondered where he'd been tonight; he smelled faintly of perfume and sweat and something chemical. He smelled of sex, too, but that was probably just her imagination. It wasn't impossible, she supposed. Just because he didn't talk about women didn't mean he wasn't involved with one or didn't go in for one-night stands.

 

If he had been with a woman why had he come to her flat and crawled into bed with her after?

 

"I'm always okay," he said, and she knew that was the exact opposite of the truth.

 

"Mm," she dismissed, letting it go without further comment. She didn't like that he thought he had to hide whatever it was. "It's the weather. Brings it out in people," she added, thinking of what had happened tonight with Tom.

 

He made a noise of agreement, but otherwise offered nothing. They lapsed into silence and she realized how controlled his body felt, each breath deliberate. He was aware of her body, she thought. Aware of their position. He hadn't made any move to pull away, though.

 

She was certainly aware of _his_ body, bed-hot and solid where she pressed against him. She'd probably never get to feel him this close ever again.

 

She couldn't help but believe there was more to this, something bigger. That maybe he was there because he needed her and even he didn't know why.

 

"It's silly, but I feel like something's coming," she thought out loud.

 

She felt his thighs tighten and his hips twitch just the slightest bit; she wondered if he was reacting to her and, if so, was it simply a reflex, or was it because it was her?

 

"There's always something coming. It's only when you let your guard down and stop expecting it that random life events seem more significant. 'Precognition' is only confirmation bias, more often than not," he rushed out like he did when he was uncomfortable. When he was hiding something.

 

"Or you see things happening but you don't know how to put the pieces together until something moves them into place," she said. She felt like she was on the verge of an epiphany, but there was still something missing. Or that things were very close to spiralling.

 

"That, too, sometimes."

 

There was more, she knew there was more; she sighed, frustrated and tired and just wanting some clarity, some of her control back.

 

Sherlock twitched and tensed against her; he held his breath.

 

She wasn't thinking; it just felt natural to kiss his shoulder blade. It was more for her own comfort than anything, wanting to soothe herself with the feel his skin under her lips, _it's okay, it's going to be okay_ in the press of her mouth.

 

Sherlock's breath stuttered and she realized what she had done and what, without a doubt, she was making him feel. There was a kind of heady rush of power to it, past that of simply turning a man on; it was a vindication of sorts. There was a thread of spite buried in there as well. Spite for Tom, for his jealousy and accusations and for how right he actually was. Spite for Sherlock, for always giving her only enough to keep hanging on, but no more than that.

 

She was going to push this, she decided. She was going to take it as far as he would let her because... Well, because she wanted him, and she wanted to punish him. She wanted to punish Tom, too, do something that would hurt him if he ever found out (which he never would).

 

She touched his chest while she kissed his shoulder again and again and again, listening to him while he fought his body's reactions. He wasn't stopping her, he wasn't encouraging her. She had no idea what he was thinking and, instead of his lack of response one way or the other being a deterrent, it made her bolder, more determined to make him submit. Give into his body, give in to her, give in to what they'd been dancing around for years.

 

She moved her hand lower, enjoying the change in texture from the coarse hair of his chest to the smooth (if slightly sweaty) skin of his stomach. Finally he did something; his hand covered hers and she wondered if this was it, if he was going to gently-but-firmly remove her arm from around his person or if he was going to pull her closer.

 

He shifted away and disappointment rose in her until he rolled onto his back and slid his arm under the pillow; there was a moment where nothing at all happened and then he leaned in and kissed her.

 

His kisses were just as she'd always imagined; greedy, needy, a demand and a plea, the kind of thing anyone would get swept up in. She slid her arm around him and he palmed her breast; she wanted to fuck him so badly it hurt. She was always more sensitive the day or so before her period, she always felt hotter and more desperate.

 

No, she wasn't going to let him have that. Not yet. She would give on _her_ terms. She was going to take and to witness; she was going to put him in her place and make him into a spectator instead of a participant.

 

She slid her hand over his cock through the sweat-damp cotton of his pants; he was like a furnace, so hard that she thought he must be aching with it. She ran her fingertip over the pronounced ridge of the head before gripping him loosely, getting the feel of him. He wasn't the biggest she'd ever had, but impressive enough; she wanted nothing more than to just climb on top of him and let him hold her hips in place while he fucked up into her.

 

He was still resisting, she thought, still hesitant as she slid her fingers under the elastic of his pants. He pushed up her shirt and his hand finally made contact with her bare breast; she wanted to beg him for more, pull his head to her chest and order him to suck, but that would be giving up too much, would distract her from what she wanted to do.

 

She eased the waistband down over his cock and bollocks, lifting them out of his pants. She held his cock gently like the delicate thing it was; he stopped kissing her because all his attention was fixed on her hand.

 

She had him right where she wanted him; she made him wait while she retrieved the lube from her drawer. She bypassed the condoms but she was so, so tempted to grab one and roll it on him, hitch her leg high over his waist and pull her shorts and underwear to the side and let him fuck her just like that.

 

She wondered (not for the first time) what his favourite position was as she opened the cap and drizzled the lube over his cock. She wondered if he was the silent type or if he was vocal, if he was the kind that liked to watch himself fuck, the only points of contact being his cock and her legs around his hips, or if he would bury his face against her neck while he covered her, his damp skin pressed to hers from hips to shoulders.

 

She didn't think he had much experience, actually, past the fact that he never talked about women; there was something a bit innocent about him. Always had been. The fact that he was already close from just a few strokes bore that out, although if he'd been with another woman tonight, she might have denied him and that would account for his lack of staying power.

 

He was a bit clumsy, too, like he didn't really know his way around a breast or the things that most men over a certain age all seemed to just know felt good. She couldn't imagine him, of all people, being unobservant and not applying knowledge gained from other women to the current situation. His hand felt good, though, really, _really_ good. He could play with her tits anytime if he needed the practice, she thought, giddy.

 

She wasn't ready for it to be over yet; she switched from stroking to teasing.

 

She was good at handjobs. She liked them, she liked the power she held over a man when she gave them. Not like a blowjob, which was—in her experience, at least—the exact opposite. She knew that not all men were hair-pulling face-fuckers who thought everything was porn, but she'd had enough encounters that had gone that way to be soured to the act. The way Sherlock was reacting to her hand made her wonder if he'd be different, if he'd make the same tortured little noises and try to hold himself back like he was right then. She liked how lost he seemed.

 

She thought she'd go easy on him and just let him get off; she wondered if he'd let her do this again, get him close and then back off again and again until he was a quivering mess. She had a boyfriend years ago that liked that; most of them didn't and would come out of spite alone.

 

Sherlock started to thrust into her strokes, instinct driving him more than anything else.

 

"Molly—" he begged.

 

He was close, bollocks drawn up and every muscle in his body taut, but he wouldn't let himself go. She wasn't surprised; he was a control freak in every other aspect of his life, so of course he'd have trouble letting someone else bring him off. Funny, though, how he'd never once tried to take over or to guide her; unexpected. She wondered if it was trust, if that same kind of trust was what had him in her bed that night to begin with. The answer was probably yes.

 

"Just let go," she whispered, thinking that he only needed her permission, or enough of a reassurance to give himself permission.

 

It _was_ enough; she felt his cock twitch and thicken as he came rather spectacularly; pulse after pulse hit his stomach and chest and the arm that was across his body. His eyes were scrunched tight, his mouth hanging open as the most delicious pained noises came out of him, like he couldn't believe it was happening. She throbbed in sympathy, thinking she'd love to straddle his thigh and rub herself off against it right through her sleep shorts and underwear. She knew they were already soaked.

 

When he was well and truly finished she started to roll away to get him something to clean up with; she had tissues on the bedside table, though she'd need a handful to mop up the sheer volume he'd produced. He held her in place and she wasn't really expecting that; even if they were cuddlers, most men didn't want to be covered in their own come for any length of time.

 

One look at Sherlock's face told her it wasn't that he was into being a sweaty, slimy mess, but that he needed the physical connection more than anything right then. She wasn't sure what he was feeling but she knew whatever it was was intense and overwhelming for him. She laid a gentle (if unpleasantly slick) hand on his stomach, feeling his pulse jump underneath her fingers; she kissed him a reassurance that it was fine and she wasn't going anywhere.

 

Was he always like this? She'd often speculated that he'd be needy in bed based on how needy he was the rest of the time; he always had to have someone to praise him, to make him feel good about himself. Either that or she thought he'd be cold, a woman's pleasure existing only to further his own rather than something to be desired for itself. She didn't think he was consciously so callous, but sometimes he had the self-awareness of a table lamp.

 

As if reading her mind, he started to move his hand lower from where it had been resting. "Do you want—"

 

"No, it's fine. Not, ah, not tonight." Oh, she wanted, she really fucking wanted. But she got what she needed, a measure of her control back, and that was worth more than an orgasm.

 

She knew when something in him shifted; she didn't know what he was thinking but he seemed disturbed. Maybe he felt... used? She couldn't be sure, but there was something going on inside his head that she wasn't privy to and she couldn't read it on his face.

 

She suddenly found herself needing space, breathing room. He didn't try to pull her back when she got up this time.

 

She was ashamed of herself for what she'd just done. She'd always thought that if it did ever happen with Sherlock, it would be something different. It would happen the normal way, with some kind of verbal acknowledgement that yes, there were feelings on both sides, and then a kiss to seal the deal, and then things going however they went. Not whatever it was that just happened.

 

Not using him as revenge against her ex-fiancé, who didn't even know he was an ex. Or, well, probably did, but hadn't been formally declared as such yet. Not using it as some kind of powerplay or punishment with a man she's always been in love with but whose feelings for her were ambiguous at best.

 

Sherlock tried to push her away when she started to clean him up; she felt like it was something she needed to do, though. To wash away her shame, cleanse him of it, in a way. To take care of him in the only way she really could at the moment.

 

After, they lie side-by-side in the dark room, the rain gentle and calming. Sherlock was thinking, even though he was clearly exhausted; she was thinking because she was still wound up from everything that had happened and uncomfortable from denying herself the release she so badly needed.

 

She'd really like to cozy up to him a bit; not wrap herself around him or anything, but just drape an arm over his waist or rest her hand on his chest. Couldn't do, though. She did reach out and take his hand, feeling like he needed that sense of connection, however small, just as much as she did.

 

"Just go to sleep, Sherlock."

 

Much to her surprise, he did. It took her quite a bit longer.

 

*

 

Three months later he crawled into bed with her again.

 

It wasn't the first time he'd been at her flat since getting home from hospital, not even the first time he'd slept there since. He mostly did that while she was at work and John wasn't working, but there had been a few times when he'd still been asleep when she was ready for bed, so they'd shared. He was always gone before morning, though she usually woke up to mumble a goodbye. She thought maybe once he'd sighed and smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead, but she wasn't sure she hadn't dreamed it, so it didn't count.

 

He spooned up behind her, his arm encircling her waist and the other sliding beneath her pillow. That was new.

 

"Molly," he said quietly, almost a question. She hadn't yet been asleep, only still in that drifting phase before dropping off completely.

 

"Mm," she answered, sliding her arm over his and covering his hand. If he was offering, she was going to take it. A lot had happened since the last time they'd been this close, enough to make her forget the weirdness of that night; enough to make her appreciate any affection he showed her.

 

They hadn't talked about it. Or even acknowledged it. She hadn't seen him again before that morning in the lab, and then he'd been shot and the timing was just never right to bring it up. It seemed almost inconsequential, anyway. He'd almost died. Actually had died, technically. There'd just been a lot going on, other things to deal with.

 

"You were right, before. That night, I mean. Something _is_ coming."

 

She'd think he was reading her mind, but it had quite obviously been on his mind, too. She leaned back into him, turning as much as she could to look at him; she was fully awake now. "What is it?"

 

"I don't know yet. But it'll be soon."

 

He'd told her everything after he'd been shot; who put him in hospital and why John was living with him again, the whole story with Magnussen. It had been a lot to swallow and she'd known it wasn't over. She was fairly certain that whatever he was talking about had something to do with it, since he hadn't taken many cases since getting out of hospital.

 

"What do you need me to do?" she asked, already wondering what it was going to cost him, cost her, cost everyone involved.

 

"I need you to stay as far away from it as you can. This isn't like before, or like other cases. I think... I think I might be in over my head." He sounded off, again, though not high. Probably. She wasn't very good at spotting it, apparently.

 

She tried to pull away and turn over to face him; he held her in place a bit forcefully. A surge of adrenaline coursed through her; fear. Not of him or his physicality, but of the implications of what he was saying.

 

"You know I'll do anything I can to help you," she said, craning her neck to look at his face. He had his head tilted down, hidden in the shadow of her shoulder.

 

"I know," he said, finding her hand and interlacing their fingers so they were palm-to-palm. It was a familiar comfort; she'd held his hand like that when he was in hospital, even after he was well enough not to need it. "But I can't let this pull you down, too. Magnussen would think nothing of ruining your life if he knew it could be used against me, and I will not let that happen."

 

He kissed her shoulder through her t-shirt; she wasn't sure what it meant, exactly, so she only squeezed his hand as a reassurance. She was right to be afraid, she thought. She didn't want to get caught up in another one of Sherlock's games. People died. Never _his_ people, but people. And him, twice.

 

She didn't like to think about that, any of it.

 

He slipped his hand from her grasp and trailed his fingertips over her forearm, up past her elbow, lifting the sleeve of her t-shirt as he went. He pulled it as far as it would go, exposing the round of her shoulder; he planted an open-mouthed kiss to the bare skin there. His hand lay heavy and warm on her upper arm.

 

Arousal jolted through her, gut clenching and nipples tightening with the force of it. She was hyper-aware of where his body was pressed against hers; she wasn't sure if he was wearing pants or not, but she knew he wasn't wearing a shirt or pyjama bottoms.

 

He kissed another spot just to the side of the first and she exhaled heavily. The hand on her arm moved to her waist and rested briefly on her hip before sliding down the outside of her thigh; his fingertips skated over the top of her leg as he moved his hand back up. This time he lifted the hem of her shirt, fingers trailing over the rise of her hip, the side of her pants, down to the dip of her waist and up along the flare of her ribs. He cupped her breast, kneading before rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His technique seemed to have improved and she didn't want to think about how.

 

He shifted against her and his cock—already half-hard—pressed her bottom and she thought yes, this is actually going to happen. He kissed the corner of her jaw, dragging his lips to her earlobe before sucking it into his mouth and teething it; she bucked against him and reached behind herself to bury her hand in his hair, still slightly damp from the cold, heavy fog that had settled over the city like a blanket.

 

She should say something. Whatever was going to happen, they should talk about it. Should have talked about what happened before. She didn't care, though, she _wanted_. Anything, everything, as far as he'd go. She wasn't stupid enough to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

His hand moved from her breast to skim over her stomach, lower, fingertips dipping under the elastic of her pants, then moving outward to her hip. He hooked his fingers in the material while he shifted away from her again; cold air hit her skin as the blankets were pushed down. He kissed the round of her hip while pulling down the side of her pants as far as they would go, then palmed her thigh while he gently bit the skin over the edge of her hipbone.

 

She turned onto her back as much as she could; he was propped on one elbow behind her, so only her shoulders and upper torso lay flat. He finished sucking a mark into her hip and shifted his body so she could lie flat, sliding his arm under the curve of her waist. She watched as he traced his fingertips just above the elastic of her pants before hooking them on the other side of her hip; her breathing sped up as he tugged them down to below the vee of her thighs, just barely exposing her. He kissed the midpoint between her pubic hair and navel, working her underwear farther down her legs one side at a time.

 

She reached for him again and ran her hands through his hair. He looked up at her, making eye contact. It was hard to read his expression; curious and hungry and maybe something that was a hint of uncertainty. They'd already passed the point of no return months ago, though; anything they did now was just a continuation.

 

Something in the look she gave him in return must have provided him whatever reassurance he needed. He moved farther down her body to kneel by her calves; she moved her legs to assist as he slipped her underwear completely off. He wasted no time, palming one of her shins while grabbing her other ankle and kissing the inside, just above the bone, then higher.

 

No one had ever treated her like this, it was like something out of a film. She wondered again if maybe he wasn't very experienced and he was just imitating something he'd seen. Whatever the case, it was working. She felt _desired_ , something she hadn't felt in a very long time.

 

He kissed a meandering trail up her calf; his other hand moved over her shin to her bent knee and then down along the top of her thigh. The anticipation was killing her; she wanted to kiss him, she wanted his fingers higher. She never wanted it to end, though. Sparks danced under her skin at every point of contact, every exhalation against her driving her mad.

 

He pushed her knees apart and shuffled closer; he mouthed the inside of her thigh before moving upwards, kissing up the top of her leg and over her hip. He kissed her stomach and she was a bit disappointed that he hadn't so much as brushed against her pubic hair. Was it an aversion, or part of the tease?

 

She had little time to care as his mouth found her breast. He trailed his tongue over the swell to her nipple before his lips closed over it. His eyes flicked briefly up to hers as he sucked while sweeping his tongue against the underside; she squeezed his waist with her knees and rolled her hips as she felt herself getting wetter. She'd think he knew exactly what he was doing, the arrogant sod, but there was something about the way he moved that lacked his usual confidence and grace; she tried to ignore the way it pulled at something deep inside her, instead forcing herself to focus solely on the physical.

 

He settled over her, one arm sliding under her to clamp down over her shoulder, his free hand skating over her arm until he found hers and laced their fingers together again before pressing them against the mattress. She moved her hand from his hair to swipe her thumb behind the corner of his jaw, then traced the shell of his ear; she felt him shiver and press his hips into the bed. He bit down ever-so-gently, then backed off and grazed his incisors over the very tip of her nipple. She arched her back, a high-pitched moan escaping her throat.

 

She hadn't wanted to make noise just in case it would snap him out of whatever spell he was under; instead, it seemed to incite him further. He let her breast drop from his mouth and surged up to (finally, _finally_ ) kiss her. His mouth wasn't gentle as his lips pushed hers apart but she didn't mind; she kissed back just as fiercely.

 

He ground his cock against her and she gasped, thrusting back against him. She was already soaking through the thin layer of silk that separated them. The material was smooth against her inner thighs, contrasting with the coarseness of his chest hair where it rubbed against her breasts. So much _sensation_ ; she couldn't remember the last time she was so aware of everything, so in the moment during sex.

 

Sherlock broke away from her mouth to suck wet kisses against her jaw and down her neck; not hard enough to leave a mark, but just as pleasurable. He was just as good at this as she'd always imagined. He held his hips still as she rocked hers, rubbing her swollen clit against the spot just under the head of his cock; she hadn't been this turned on in ages and she was to the point where she only wanted relief.

 

Was he waiting for her to ask, to beg, to grant him permission?

 

"Get a condom," she breathed into his ear.

 

He made a noise of assent and pulled away from her to open the drawer of her bedside table; he knew exactly where they were, which should bother her because privacy. She found herself unable to care—grateful, even—that he didn't have to waste time searching. There was something else, too, something reassuring about his familiarity with her space.

 

She watched as he pushed his boxers down and awkwardly wrestled them off, then sat back on his heels and ripped open the package with his teeth before rolling on the condom. He had a lovely cock, she thought; the memory of it in her hand causing her to shiver with anticipation for what came next.

 

He lowered himself over her and kissed her again, more tenderly than she was expecting; it was so sweet that she felt the odd, fleeting urge to cry because of how much longing she felt for him, all of him, just then.

 

He wedged his arm between their bodies and he gripped his cock, shifting until he was able to get the right angle to guide himself inside her. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip before he bit it, his eyes closed; the head of his cock slid and pressed between her labia before he found the right spot and pushed slowly inside, just the tip breaching her. She could barely breathe with the anticipation of being filled by him, having him all the way inside her.

 

He removed his hand and planted his forearm against the bed, groping until he once again interlaced their fingers. He rested his forehead on the pillow, his face turned into hers as he pushed into her slowly, carefully, seemingly unsure of himself. His breaths were harsh against her neck and collarbone, the sensation causing her skin to pebble and her nipples to tighten to an almost painful degree as her back arched. Her movement drove his cock into her faster, pulling a strangled little noise from Sherlock.

 

She turned her face and kissed his jaw, his cheek, anything she could reach. She gripped his shoulder, trying not to dig her fingernails into the skin as the insistent press of his cock continued to fill her until he bottomed out. He started to move, then, just as slowly, pulling back and thrusting in again.

 

"I don't think I'm going to last," he murmured, something between a warning and a plea and an apology.

 

"Then just fuck me," she growled back, so close to the edge herself that all she could think of was _hard_ and _fast_ and _now_.

 

Sherlock choked out a noise and his hips began to move with as much finesse as he could muster; she fucked herself against him, lost in the sensation.

 

"You feel so good," she moaned, curling into him as she felt herself getting closer.

 

"S-so do you," Sherlock choked out, breathing ragged. He tipped his head down to mouth her collarbone. "This is... I've never... I want—want to make you come," he stammered like it was the filthiest thing he'd ever said.

 

That thought combined with his actual words was enough; she felt everything in her draw tight, her head pressing back against the pillow and her back bowing against the pull of her impending orgasm before it broke. She cried out with the force of it, her whole body jerking against him.

 

He felt it, she knew he felt it; his thrusts sped up and seconds later he went rigid, breathing out the most exquisite pained noise as he pressed her into the mattress.

 

He lay on top of her, dropping uncoordinated kisses onto her shoulder and against her neck; he had the presence of mind to grip the base of the condom when he pulled out, shivering from oversensitivity. She stretched, content, while he stripped the condom and cleaned himself up with tissues from the bedside table.

 

She reached for him as he moved to lay next to her; he let himself be pulled into her embrace and met her halfway when she leaned in to kiss him. They were all arms and legs until they figured out how to arrange themselves comfortably on their sides, face to face; it was unmistakably a cuddle.

 

She knew they'd have to talk about this sometime and not let whatever was happening between them languish like it had before. Not tonight, though; she was tired and happy to just have him there with her. He didn't seem inclined to talk, either, though there was definitely something on his mind.

 

She tried very hard to not to think about what was coming and why it would be so bad that he didn't want her help. Or why he wanted to keep her out of it, what that meant. She tried not to think about the significance of what they'd just done, either. Comfort, but was it more?

 

Was that what she wanted? Maybe years ago, but now... Her heart said one thing while her head told her another; Sherlock Holmes was a dangerous man. In his own right, but also the trouble that followed him. And if he felt like he was in over his head and that there was a possibility she might get hurt... maybe she should listen to the voice that was telling her to run. Self-preservation instinct.

 

"Molly," he said quietly. "Stop thinking and go to sleep." He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

 

She forced herself to relax, to live in the moment. She'd just had one of the most intense shags of her life, she deserved to bask in it for a little while before reality rolled right on up to her doorstep. She tipped her head up and kissed him goodnight before settling back into him, only letting herself replay what had just happened and think about next time, going on the very big assumption there would be a next time.

 

*

 

He was still there when she woke up. He wouldn't be when she got back.

 

 


End file.
